


A Whole Latte Love

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 221B Mine [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baristas, M/M, Teenlock, Unilock, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's a regular at a coffee shop near his lab, always coming in at the same time and ordering the same thing. That is, until they get a new barista: a fellow student with a penchant for latte art who will throw a not-entirely-unwelcome wrench into his routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whole Latte Love

**Author's Note:**

> **References**  
>  \- If you're squeamish, be careful past the point where John says he isn't squeamish.  
> \- If you are NOT squeamish, [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Entomotoxicology) are some resources to flesh out (ew, god, I'm sorry, but there's no other word for it) that bit at the end.  
> \- SQUEAMISH PEOPLE LOOK AWAY NOW ... Carrion = technical term for dead and putrefying flesh.
> 
> Also, make sure to check out my [Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/) so you can get enter into my [follower giveaway](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/post/108860752976/okay-so-like-i-said-i-reached-1k-a-while-ago)!
> 
> Double also, there's a Valentine's Day playlist: [221B Mine](http://8tracks.com/prettysailorsoldier/221b-mine)!

The rain pounded down upon the street, reflecting the traffic lights in smears of color across the pavement, and Sherlock lifted a hand as he raced through a pedestrian crossing, dismissing the honk of a cabbie who apparently had better things to do than wait for a green light.

He hadn’t intended to stay this late at the lab, his thesis experiment getting a bit away from him, and he knew Mrs. Hudson was going to slaughter him as soon as he stepped through the door, sputtering about how she’d told him to bring an umbrella as she hastened him out of his sopping trench coat. Hoping to at least dry off enough to avoid most of her ire, he ducked into his usual coffee shop, a small spot that was spared most of the more boisterous student crowd. It was also open late, a smart decision being so close to the science and medical sections of campus, and Sherlock was grateful for it, the warm air and gentle yellow light of the shop washing over him as he pushed inside the door. Rattling his arms slightly, a pointless gesture to shake off the already soaked-in rain, he walked up the strip of black carpet that lead the way to the cash, scrubbing at his curls to dispel the clinging droplets.

“You’re out late,” Molly said as she approached the opposite side of the cash register, typing in his signature order as he fished out his wallet. “Thought I told you to go home hours ago.”

“Threats don’t carry much weight over text,” Sherlock replied, and Molly chuckled, shaking her head as she held her palm beneath his coins.

A loud giggle burst from his right, and Sherlock’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes wide with equal measures of alarm and disgust as they alighted on a young woman waiting for her drink at the other end of the counter, her flaming red hair twirling around a pale finger.

“So, you’re in your last year?” she asked, green eyes bright and blinking rather more than necessary as they fixed on the man making her drink.

The man nodded, the half of his face Sherlock could see smiling, and Sherlock frowned, tilting his head slightly as he searched over the newcomer.

He’d been coming here long enough to at least recognize everyone on staff, but he did not know this man, the blond hair and short stature entirely foreign to him, and he leaned in to Molly, dropping his voice as he listened to the redhead continue to make a fool of herself. “Who’s that?” he asked, bobbing his head toward the man, and Molly’s eyes instantly brightened, her cheeks darkening as she followed his nod.

“Oh, that’s John,” she said, gesturing at him with a flick of her fingers that quickly shifted to tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “He started on Monday. He’s very nice.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock muttered, watching as John placed the girl’s drink on the ledge, taking care to ensure he retracted his hand before her fingers could brush against it. “You’ve known him three days.”

“I’ve known him longer than that,” she explained, her voice dipping to a hiss. “He’s in the med program. We’ve had classes together. Not many, mind you; he’s a few years older than me,” she added, shrugging a shoulder, her neck now starting to redden as well.

Sherlock quirked a brow at her as she avoided his eyes, and then their attention was drawn back to the exchange across the counter, the young woman laughing raucously at something John must have said, though he looked rather regretful about doing so. “He seems…popular,” Sherlock remarked, and Molly scoffed, nodding firmly.

“Yeah, you could say that. Soon-to-be doctor, captain of the Bart’s rugby team, and single the week before Valentine’s Day?” she recited, dropping her chin as she pointedly quirked her brows at him. “Not to mention the latte art, which apparently makes _everyone_ think he’s flirting with them.”

“The what?” Sherlock sputtered, rattling his head in bemusement, and Molly smiled, turning away to grab his takeaway cup, scratching out the particulars on the side with a pen.

“You know, those pictures people can make in the froth on top of lattes?” she explained without clarifying anything at all, and his continued confusion must have shown on his expression, as she chuckled softly. “Sometimes it’s just pouring it a certain way—that generally makes hearts, which is mostly what he does—but you can also get really elaborate with it, take a stirrer or some cocoa powder and draw just about anything.”

Sherlock blinked, looking between Molly’s face and the stiff set of John’s shoulders where he was still trapped in conversation. “Why?” he questioned, dumbfounded at the need for such an absurd procedure, but Molly only laughed, shaking her head as she moved away to place his cup beneath the espresso machine.

“Hey, John?” she beckoned, and the man eagerly turned toward her, eyes bright and expectant. “Come here. I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

Sherlock snapped his eyes to her, torn between betrayal and alarm at being claimed as someone’s friend in public, but he quickly pushed that aside as John came near, tipping his head with a smiled of feigned apology as he excused himself from the young woman.

“John,” Molly began, waving a hand between them, “this is Sherlock. He goes to Bart’s as well.”

“Yeah,” John mused, brows knitting together thoughtfully as he tilted his head, scanning over Sherlock’s face, “I think we’ve had a class together. Chemistry, maybe? I took one with Landrum last semester.”

“Oh,” Sherlock started, suddenly placing the face now that he could see it properly, or, more specifically, now that he could see John’s eyes, the blue just as piercing now as whenever he’d turned around to check the time in their organic chemistry lecture, his seat three rows up and four to the left. Which Sherlock remembered for some completely innocuous reason he would come up with later. “Right, I- Yeah,” he muttered, smiling as he firmly commanded his brain to pull it together. “You do look a bit familiar,” he added with a nod, and John grinned, the gesture seeming strangely sadistic as it twisted Sherlock’s stomach into knots.

“Hey, what’d you think of that final?” the blond asked, chuckling as Sherlock grimaced. “Yeah, me too,” he murmured, shrugging a shoulder, “but I passed, so who cares?”

Sherlock smiled, ducking his chin as he rocked back on his heels, feeling Molly’s eyes boring into the side of his face as it was his turn to avoid her gaze.

“So, what program are you in?” John questioned, and Sherlock blinked his gaze back up to his eyes, mouth stalling open a moment as his vision swam across the truly unjust blue.

“Chemistry,” he managed to reply out of habit, and then swallowed ga,thering himself again. “You?”

“Medicine,” John answered, tipping his head. “Last year, though. Feels like I’ve been here forever.”

Sherlock smiled, huffing a small laugh as he nodded. “Yeah, I’m in my last year too. Though my degree’s not as long as yours.”

John shrugged, rattling his head. “Only by a year. And, really, past year three, it hardly matters how long you’re here; it’s a haze of caffeine and word processors regardless.”

Sherlock laughed, and John beamed, and Molly, as Sherlock made the mistake of looking at her, glanced between them, a suspicion growing in her slowly narrowing eyes.

Just then, Sherlock’s mobile chimed in his pocket, buzzing violently against his leg, and he wrestled it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID before answering with an apologetic glance between the duo.

“Hello?” he said over a sigh, turning to lean his hip against the counter as he watched Molly walk away to continue his drink, John shuffling back to allow him some privacy.

“Are you alright?” Mrs. Hudson’s breathy concern rushed down the line, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, his head shaking fondly as he replied.

“I’m fine,” he assured, and Mrs. Hudson puffed out a breath of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness! Why are you out so late?”

“It’s not even 11,” Sherlock replied, but Mrs. Hudson only tutted, her disapproval palpable even after bouncing between satellites.

“You know I worry about those cab drivers. Didn’t you read that article I gave you last week?”

“I skimmed it.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m on my way, alright?” he said, and Mrs. Hudson sighed, the sound shifting as she shook her head.

“You’ll be the death of me one of these days, I swear. Why can’t you ever get a ride home? You must have a friend who stays late at the lab.”

“I must?” Sherlock muttered, and Mrs. Hudson huffed exasperatedly.

“Just get home. And make sure you take a certified cab.”

“I will,” Sherlock promised, smiling softly at the woman’s fierceness, however unnecessary the worry was.

“And don’t hesitate to write down the number. Best they know you’re alert to your surroundings.”

“Alright.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock.”

“I know you are,” he barely kept from chuckling, biting hard at his lip to keep the smile from his voice. “I’ll be there soon,” he assured, turning over his shoulder, and Molly lifted a thumbs-up from where she was scraping foam atop his extra-shot latte. “I’m just getting coffee. Do you want anything?” he asked, catching John’s curious look as he shifted his gaze to the pastry display. “They have tea. Or there’s biscuits. Some kind of scone.”

“White chocolate cherry,” John provided, and Sherlock flicked a nod.

“White chocolate cherry,” he echoed to Mrs. Hudson, but received only a negative hum.

“I’m fine, dear. Can’t be eating that sort of stuff at my age. I’ve gotta be around a good long time to keep you in line.”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head as John quirked a brow, waving a hand down toward the pastries. “Alright, I’ll see you soon,” he bade, Mrs. Hudson’s “Goodbye, dear” fading away as he pulled the mobile from his ear, swiping across the screen to end the call.

“Girlfriend?” John asked, bobbing his head at the phone as Sherlock frowned.

“Oh, no,” he urged, shaking his head as he understood. “No, um, overprotective landlady,” he explained with a small smile, and John laughed, nodding in reply. Sherlock rocked back on his heels, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, girlfriends are, er…not really my area,” he murmured, looking up at John through the tops of his eyes, and John gave a short nod of understanding.

“So, a boyfriend then?” he pressed, and Sherlock let out a hollow bark of laughter.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Not anymore, anyway.”

John blinked, a crease of concern forming between his brows. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, but Sherlock only swatted a hand at him, dismissing the sentiment.

“I’m not,” he clipped, and John laughed, Sherlock’s lips pulling up at the edges along with the sound.

“Here ya go,” Molly said, clicking the paper cup down atop the counter in front of him. “One Sleep-When-You’re-Dead Latte.”

“With an extra shot of unsolicited advice,” Sherlock murmured over the lid as he sipped, Molly sneering at him as John laughed. “I’d better go,” he said, stepping backward as he bobbed his head toward the door. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Oh, you-you’re coming in tomorrow?” John asked, Sherlock nodding in reply, but it was Molly who answered.

“He’s in here every day,” she said, rolling her eyes as Sherlock narrowed his. “Or at least every night.”

“I’m using a lab around the corner for my thesis research,” he explained, and John’s lips parted in comprehension as he nodded.

“Well,” the blond chirped, “guess I’ll see ya, then. It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you, er- You too,” Sherlock replied, smiling sheepishly back at John’s grin, and then abruptly cleared his throat as he caught Molly’s pointed smirk. “Bye,” he muttered, flicking a brief wave before bolting out the door, miraculously catching a London cab in the rain, and then sat in the warm comfort of the backseat, mentally berating himself for waving like a moron as the cab weaved its way back to the lit windows of 221B.

*********

On Tuesday, Sherlock barely made it to the café, stumbling over the edge of one of the black mats as he drew up to where Molly was raising a brow at him from behind the cash.

“It’s only 4,” she remarked, chuckling as Sherlock grunted, passing across a handful of coins as she rang in the order. “Extra _extra_ shot?” she asked, pausing with her fingers over the screen, and Sherlock tilted his head, considering a moment before tossing another 20p at her. Molly laughed, shaking her head as she tapped in the addition. “Honestly, Sherlock, you drink _way_ too much caffeine,” she chided. “You’re gonna be one of those freak cases of a heart attack in your twenties.”

“Haven’t you heard?” he remarked, tipping his head. “I don’t have a heart.”

Molly rolled her eyes, smiling as she waved him to follow her while she moved across to the espresso machine. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. I know you didn’t just _find_ that chemistry textbook I couldn’t afford.”

“I told you,” Sherlock replied, folding his arms over the lip of the pickup counter as he rested his chin on his wrists, “I had it from when I took the class. It was taking up space.”

“You had the latest edition.”

“I had the class the previous semester.”

“The receipt was on the inside cover.”

“I used it for a bookmark.”

“The receipt had the _date_ on it, Sherlock.”

His lips snapped shut, and Molly laughed, tossing a triumphant smile over her shoulder as he blinked.

“Oh, hi!” a voice said from behind him, and he turned to find John emerging from the storage room, box of dark roast beans cradled in his arms. “You’re a little late, aren’t you? Usually you’re in around 2 if you come in during the day.”

“I- You’ve been here six days,” Sherlock snapped, and John smirked, shrugging as he sat the box on a steel rack beside the machines.

“And you’ve been in at 2 every single one of them,” he replied with a mocking flick of his brows, chuckling as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Another customer walked in the door, all of them turning toward the elderly gentleman, and John nudged Molly on the arm, bobbing his head toward the man approaching the counter.

“I got it,” he said, taking the jug of milk from Molly’s hand, and she tossed him a quick smile before moving to take the man’s order, leaving John to finish Sherlock’s drink.

“So, why _are_ you late?” he asked, angling his body to talk to Sherlock over his shoulder as he poured the milk into a small silver pitcher used for steaming.

“I’m not _late_ ,” Sherlock spat, but John just chuckled. Sherlock set his jaw, glaring at the back of blond’s head, but then only huffed, rattling his head and leaning back against the counter. “Had to talk to my advisor about my ‘career prospects’,” he muttered bitterly, and John laughed.

“And how do they look?” he asked blithely, flicking the dial on the machine, and Sherlock lifted his voice to be heard over the hiss of the steaming.

“Somewhere between limited and bleak,” he answered, and John barked a laugh. “At least, if I don’t go on to a graduate program.”

“Will you?” John pressed, and Sherlock shrugged. John laughed, shaking his head as he turned off the steamer. “You staying in?” he asked, pointing up to the rack of mugs used for indoor diners, and Sherlock opened his mouth to decline, but then he caught a flicker of banked hope flash across John’s eyes, and the words died on his tongue.

“Sure,” he answered, and John beamed, stretching up to snag a bright yellow ceramic mug.

“You can go sit down,” he offered, tipping his head out toward the café, and Sherlock nodded, drifting away to a spot by the window.

It wasn’t quite sunny, but the sun clearly had aspirations for the day, the clouds thinning just enough to let rays peek through here and there. The temperature had warmed up a little—though spring had not quite arrived, a few more weeks of touch-and-go before you could confidently put away your padded jackets—and more people were out, dodging the water-filled dips in the pavement as they hastened past outside the glass.

Sherlock lifted his messenger bag up onto the seat beside him, unravelling his scarf and shrugging out of his coat, draping the dark fabric over the back of his chair as he tugged at the hem of his thin grey scoop neck. He had planned to go directly to the lab after this, but there was nothing time-sensitive to be done, so he supposed a few minutes spent drinking his coffee couldn’t hurt. Maybe several minutes. Half an hour tops.

“Here ya go!” John chirped, clicking the yellow mug down beside him, and Sherlock startled, snapping away from his people-watching to look down at the drink.

Which was looking back at him, a large smiley face grinning up from the foam, and Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek, fighting not to laugh. Slowly, he lifted his chin, quirking a brow up at the blond, but John only beamed.

“Just a reminder,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “Don’t wanna get frown lines.”

“I’m 23!” Sherlock spluttered, glaring as John laughed, and then pulled his coffee toward him by the handle. “It’s a bit disconcerting,” he muttered, tipping the cup slightly toward him, “drinking something that’s _looking_ at me.”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” John chided as Sherlock lifted the mug to his lips. “It’s just happy to see ya.”

Sherlock choked, sputtering down into his coffee as he lowered the cup to the table, lifting the back of his hand to his lips as he coughed.

John laughed, impervious to Sherlock’s glare, and then his eyes widened on Sherlock’s face, and he started laughing even harder.

“What?” Sherlock muttered with a frown, and John bent double, face turning red as he gasped for breath. “What are you-” he started, and then stopped, his voice fading away as John straightened up again, shaking his head fondly as he leaned down toward him.

“You’ve got foam,” he chuckled, tugging the sleeve of his navy jumper down into his palm as he swiped across the tip of Sherlock’s nose, and Sherlock froze, eyes widening as his lungs stuttered to a stop.

John dropped his gaze a moment, examining the smear of frothed milk on his cuff, and then looked back to Sherlock, smiling slipping from his expression as he blinked, eyes scanning in a quick back-and-forth between Sherlock’s. His lips parted, twitching as if preparing to speak, and he was _so_ close, coffee mixing with something that was most assuredly John—an earthy sort of clean, like saltwater-worn driftwood—as Sherlock drew in a breath, his lungs starving for oxygen. The movement seemed to draw John back to himself, however, and his eyes dropped as he leaned back, throat bobbing with a swallow.

“Well, I’ll, er- I’ll leave ya to it,” he muttered, clearing his throat as he waved a hand down between Sherlock and his coffee, and then beat a hasty retreat, disappearing back toward the counter.

Sherlock blinked down at the table, trying to explain away the pounding of his heart as he slid the mug toward him with quivering fingers. Maybe Molly was right: the caffeine _was_ giving him a heart attack. Closing his eyes, he blew out a steadying breath, some of the humming retreating from his ears, and then lifted the cup to his lips, slurping in the hot liquid. As he lowered the mug, his eyes caught on the smiley face again, the mouth a little warped from his drinking, and he couldn’t help but to chuckle, shaking his head fondly at the absurd image.

Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder, not particularly surprised to find John’s eyes already on him, and, as they exchanged small smiles, a hint of pink grazing across the blond’s cheeks, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be curbing his caffeine addiction anytime soon.

*********

When he came in on Wednesday, the café was packed, Sherlock almost convincing himself that vending machine coffee wasn’t that bad until John spotted him, flashing a bright grin before returning to shaking some sort of blended ice drink into a clear plastic cup. Escape no longer nearly as attractive an option, Sherlock instead joined the line, Molly buzzing through orders so quickly, he was giving his within only a matter of minutes.

“Why are there so many people here?” Sherlock asked as he dropped the money into her hand, and Molly sighed, shaking her head down at the cash.

“John’s doing conversation hearts,” she muttered, and Sherlock frowned, tipping his head in bemusement.

Molly smiled, opening the drawer to drop in his coins. “You know, those sweets people give out on Valentine’s Day? They’re shaped like hearts, and they have messages on them like ‘Be Mine’ and ‘XOXO’ and such?” she began, and Sherlock nodded, familiar with that much, at least. “Well, he’s been putting them on the drinks. Nothing too elaborate,” she added, shrugging a shoulder, “but people have been coming in all day anyway. Some are even making requests.”

“Requests?” Sherlock questioned, and Molly nodded.

“His phone number seems to be the most popular, but there’s not nearly enough space for that,” she said, and then tipped her head, lips twitching in an apologetic smile as she turned to the man behind him. “What can I get for you?” she asked brightly, and Sherlock shuffled away to what had become his table by the window, the spot unpopular with most guests due to the cooler temperatures near the glass.

He slumped down into a chair, letting his bag drop unceremoniously to the floor beside him as he stared down at the table, the swirls of the wood grain blurring as he tried to get a handle on his ragged breaths.

His phone number? People were asking for John’s _phone number_!?

He turned as slightly as he could, straining his eyes to the corners to find John at the end of the wraparound counter, pouring out a drink as he made idle conversation with one of the too-many girls gathered opposite him.

The girl laughed loudly, some of the others around her joining in, and John looked between them, brows twitching in a momentary frown of confusion before his politeness won out, and he grinned at them, painfully winsome.

Sherlock swallowed, his tongue coated with bitterness.

It had been stupid, really, thinking there had been something special about it, that anything John had done had been at all unique to him. Everyone got latte art and charming smiles beneath sparkling blue eyes, not just him, not by a long shot. And now, apparently, people could special-request ‘Love Ya’s and ‘Call Me’s and whatever the hell else they wanted, and Sherlock felt like the biggest idiot in all of London, his mind made up to leave, coffee be damned, when a cup clinked down hard on the table beside him.

“One latte with an extra shot,” a young woman said, one of the assistants who was sometimes called in to help Molly when things got out of hand, and Sherlock couldn’t remember her name for the life of him, so he only nodded, his mouth lifting in polite gratitude. The girl smiled back, and then darted away, fetching another cup off the counter to deliver to another table.

Sherlock turned back, folding his fingers around the mug as he slid it toward him across the table, and then stalled, tilting his head as he frowned down at the surface. For a second, it eluded him, his eyes following the curves of the letters in confusion, and then he huffed a laugh, shaking his head in begrudging amusement at the message contained within the coffee-drawn heart.

_QT  
_ _π_

He could feel eyes on the back of his neck, but he still couldn’t manage to restrain himself, teeth pinching hard at his bottom lip as he ducked his head to his lap, and then he gave up entirely, turning around to meet John’s smirk across the café. _‘Really?’_ he mouthed, and John grinned, his exaggerated shrug exuding an almost impressive amount of smug pride. Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to his drink, finger lifting to slide lightly along the lip of the cup.

Just as quickly as the glee had come, however, it vanished, a deadweight settling in his chest and dragging down the edges of his smile as he wondered how many other people had gotten the same message, and he abruptly found he had no taste left for the coffee, most of it still there when the crowd died down twenty minutes later.

He was just about to grab his bag and leave when there was a blur of green beside him, the chair across from his scraping over the floor with a sharp squeak before John dropped down into it with a heavy sigh, the emerald wool of his jumper hanging loose around his neck where the collar had stretched.

“Finally!” he panted, arms folding onto the table in front of him as he lowered his chin to rest on the makeshift pillow. “I thought I’d never be able to take my break! It’s been like that all morning!”

Sherlock managed a half-smile, fingers twisting together as he awkwardly folded his hands. “Price of popularity,” he muttered, a little sharper than he’d intended, but John didn’t appear to notice, huffing a laugh as he nodded.

“Yeah, apparently. I don’t get it though, I mean, they’re only hearts. Not like they’re hard to draw. And I only did, like, three messages.”

“Oh?” Sherlock inquired, fingers tightening together as he forced his voice to remain light.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t fit much else,” John replied, still thoroughly oblivious as he leaned back in his chair, “so it was just a lot of ‘Be Mine’ and ‘XO’, and then a couple people wanted their names.” He shrugged, thankfully looking out the window as Sherlock’s head snapped up in alarm, heart leaping into his throat with tentative hope.

“Really?” he pressed, trying not to look too relived when John nodded. “I thought- Molly said you were taking requests.”

“I was _getting_ requests,” John corrected, tipping his head across at him, “but I didn’t actually make any of them. Too much to keep track of, ya know?” he added, and Sherlock nodded, happy with the decision regardless of the reasoning. John smiled, eyes dropping to his lap as he twisted at a cuff of his jumper. “I think yours came to me in a dream,” he said abruptly, bobbing a nod at Sherlock’s cup as he lifted his chin. “I woke up with it in my head and thought: ‘Who do I know who would appreciate a pi pun?’”

Sherlock laughed, John watching him with a growing grin.

“Believe it or not, yours is the only name that came to mind.”

“Really?” Sherlock chuckled, and John answered with a deep nod, as if the matter were of grave importance.

“Not just anyone could appreciate _that_ caliber of humor,” he said, gesturing at the mug, and Sherlock laughed again, shaking his head down at the table, “and I’ll be damned if I let my maths pun genius go underappreciated.”

“Well, of course,” Sherlock urged, firmly shaking his head. “That would be truly tragic.”

“Truly,” John echoed, grinning as Sherlock chuckled. “I do believe we’ve narrowly averted a crisis.”

“We?” Sherlock questioned, brow furrowing. “All I did was read it.”

“And appreciate it,” John amended, flicking a finger at him. “And, you know,” he added, shrugging as his eyes darted nervously between Sherlock’s face and the table, “you had to be cute. Otherwise, it wouldn’t’ve made sense.”

Sherlock’s lips popped apart, all amusement draining away to leave only stunned disbelief. “W-What?” he murmured, a fire erupting under his collar, and John smiled, gingerly rising to standing.

“Pretty sure you heard me,” he replied softly, like the words belonged to just the two of them, the clinking of cups and steady mumble of conversation fading away as Sherlock gaped up at him. John smiled, brief but brilliant, and then walked past him, likely returning to his post behind the counter, but Sherlock couldn’t be sure, too stunned to so much as turn his head.

His eyes were fixed straight ahead as he blinked, and it was a long moment before he could even manage to close his mouth, a swallow quickly following. He then dropped his face, gaze flitting aimlessly over his lap as he ran over every detail of the exchange in his mind, not wanting to forget a single syllable.

Suddenly, his phone began buzzing in his pocket, and he pulled the mobile free, looking at the screen to see who the text was from, but his eyes caught on the time instead, and quickly tried to bulge out of his head.

“Shit!” he hissed, shoving the mobile back into his pocket, and then leapt up, snatching his bag from the floor.

“You’re still here?” Molly bleated, blinking at him as she appeared from the back, a fresh flat of clean mugs in her arms. “Don’t you have a class at-”

Sherlock cut her off with a senseless splutter, swatting a hand back as he pushed in his chair and headed toward the door, Molly’s laughter loud behind him.

“See ya tomorrow!” she called, and Sherlock lifted his hand in a wave.

“Run, Forrest, run!” John’s voice chimed in, Sherlock changing his wave to a middle finger, but he was smiling as he swept out the door, John’s laughter not permitting any other response.

*********

The day before Valentine’s Day, Sherlock was quite sure he’d walked into the wrong café.

Glittery heart cutouts hung from the ceiling, spinning idly in the shifting air, and there were plastic stickers on the windows, cupids and doves joining even more hearts. Even the pastries had been drawn into the fray, all the frostings turned pink, and everything possible was bedecked with jimmies shaped like, you guessed it, more hearts.

“Don’t say a word,” Molly snapped as he walked slowly toward the cash, eyes wide with horror as they darted around, taking it all in. “The owner came in _last night_ and told us we had to decorate. Brought a whole box of stuff. John and I were here until 3 this morning.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Sherlock muttered, sliding the money across the counter. “But, just out of curiosity, a grown man in a nappy isn’t going to jump out and try to shoot me with arrows, is he?”

“Ha ha,” Molly said tonelessly, but John’s laugh was real, drifting out ahead of him as he appeared from the back room.

“You joke, but he _was_ talking about hiring an Easter Bunny come April,” he remarked, and Sherlock shuddered, John chuckling as he began adding water to the coffee machines.

“Oh, great,” Molly hissed, her eyes fixing on something over his shoulder, and Sherlock turned, seeing a large group of what appeared to be very young students heading toward the door. “Interviews must be over for the day. If you’re sitting in, you’d better sit fast,” she added to Sherlock, who felt rather like he was being called to his battle station, Molly’s expression turning to steel as she watched the approaching crowd, and he quirked a brow at John, who grimaced back at him.

“Undergrad interviews,” he explained. “They kind of take over the place afterwards. We have a hard time keeping up.”

Sherlock nodded, turning back to the approaching crowd closing in like an oncoming storm. “Lucky I’m not staying today,” he muttered, meeting John’s eyes as he turned back, the blue blinking at him as the blond frowned.

“You’re not?” he asked, strangely earnest, but Sherlock had no choice but to shake his head.

“No, I’ve got to get back to my experiment,” he said, and John closed his mouth, a swallow moving down his throat as he looked between Sherlock and the door.

“I- Well, I wanted to-”

The door opened, the students rushing in like water from a broken dam, and John sighed exasperatedly, rattling his head as he turned toward the machines, awaiting the orders from Molly.

Sherlock frowned at the side of his face, but there was nothing for it now, the students far too loud and demanding all of their attention, so Sherlock merely shuffled as close to the wall as he could get.

By unspoken understanding, his drink was pushed to the backburner, several impatient students getting their blended, half-caf, extra-tall whatevers before Sherlock’s came up, but he didn’t mind, and he had left half an hour before he really needed to return to the lab.

Eventually, however, John did pass the drink up over one of the machines to him, handing him the lid separately for some reason, and there was an oddly urgent look on his face Sherlock couldn’t quite parse out before the blond was gone, answering some question about what their chocolate syrup was made of.

Sherlock hovered a moment, conflicted, but he really did have to go, so he turned around, temporarily perching the cup on the edge of a nearby table as he made to snap on the lid. He almost missed it, the lid halfway over the drink before his brain blared at him to stop, and he quickly pulled back the covering, staring down at the message hastily written in swirling brown penmanship.

_Dinner?_

The café was full of people, more crowded than it had probably ever been, but Sherlock was no longer aware of any of them, his mind shutting everything down to silence in an effort to process the impossible image in front of him.

Dinner. John wanted- John was- No.

Experiment be damned; it’s not like the whole _building_ would go up in flames if he didn’t get back in time.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, pushing back through to lean over the counter, and John startled, a bit of whipped cream shooting over the side of the drink he was garnishing.

“What?” he muttered, frowning as he rattled his head, struggling with a clear domed lid. “Sherlock, I don’t-”

“’Dinner’,” Sherlock clarified, talking to the side of his face as he passed up the drink with a quickly summoned customer-service smile. “You wrote ‘Dinner’.”

“Yes,” John confirmed, frowning at him in the flash of a glance he could spare before moving back to the espresso machine.

“What do mean? What about dinner?” Sherlock pressed, and John completely lost track of his task a moment, fixing him with a look of absolute incredulity.

“I mean dinner,” he said slowly, looking between Sherlock’s eyes, as if scanning for signs of some sort of head trauma. “Supper. Tea. Food consumed in the evening.”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes exasperatedly as he shuffled further along the edge of the counter, sliding closer. “Yes, I know what dinner is.”

“Then why are you asking me?” John snapped, and then turned around, assuring a grumbling young man that his drink was coming right up.

“Why are _you_ asking _me_?” Sherlock countered, and John rattled his head at him, snapping a lid on a caramel macchiato and passing it to the brunette who answered to the call of “Janet”.

“What?” he muttered in a frustrated hiss. “Sherlock, I really don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“Why are you asking me about dinner?” he sputtered, growing more impatient and anxious with every passing second. “What does that mean, ‘Dinner’?”

“It means I’m asking you to dinner,” John answered, his patience clearly also growing thin, and, though Sherlock knew he should stop, knew when John was up to his elbows in soy milk was not the best time to have this conversation, but he had to know.

“But why?” he pressed, and John rolled his eyes.

“Because I wanted to,” he bit back, swishing water around one of the blenders as he rinsed it.

“In what way?”

“What?”

“In what way?”

“Sherlock, can you please just- Yes, that’ll be up in just a second, I’ve just gotta get this started.”

“What kind of dinner is it?”

“What, like chicken or fish?”

“No, like is it- Are you- Do you mean it… _platonically_ or-”

“Platonically!?” John spluttered, half chuckling as he twisted his face toward him over top of a pitcher of steaming milk. “Who the hell writes _platonic_ dinner invitations on _coffee_!?”

“I don’t know, you might!” Sherlock countered, and John sighed, shaking his head down at a swirl of whipped cream as he drizzled caramel over the surface.

“Well, I didn’t,” he said tersely, shouting out another name as he snapped the lid on and passed up the drink. “It was a decidedly _un_ platonic dinner invitation.”

Sherlock blinked at him, shuffling a bit further to the side as a girl brushed against his shoulder in an effort to leer up over the ledge to check the progress of her beverage. “Why?” he asked, uncertain a moment if John could have even heard him over the hiss of the machines, but then the blond laughed, the sound sharp and bitter.

“Why?” he echoed, smiling with little humor as he shook his head. “Because I wanted to. Because I like you, and I thought we got on pretty well, and- I don’t know, Sherlock, I just did, alright!?” he railed, the canister of whipped cream smacking loud against the counter as he slammed it down. “Christ, if you don’t wanna go, I wish you’d just fucking-”

“Okay.”

John stalled halfway through trailing chocolate over a pile of cream, a drop of syrup trembling on the tip of the nozzle as he snapped his face up to Sherlock. “Okay?” he repeated, lifting his brows, and Sherlock swallowed to stave off his throat closing as he nodded.

“Okay,” he confirmed, palms instantly breaking out in a flop sweat, and John was just opening his mouth when the girl beside Sherlock beat him to it.

“Is that my drink?” she demanded, pointing down at the chocolate concoction in John’s hand, and John blinked his gaze to her, mouth closing into a polite smile.

“Yeah, it’ll just be a second,” he assured, dropping his face to finish adorning the beverage, but the girl spoke out yet again.

“Can I have caramel too?” she clipped, and, though John’s grip tightened on the bottle, his expression remained completely unmoved.

“Sure thing,” he said with a bright smile, and the girl seemed placated, leaning down again as she returned to conversation with her friend. John shifted his eyes to Sherlock’s, smile turning softly apologetic. “I should…” he murmured, bobbing his head back in toward the machines as he grabbed the bottle of caramel, and Sherlock nodded back, shuffling a step away from the counter.

“Yeah, I- Me too,” he muttered, fingers shifting nervously around the latte that had started this whole mess.

“I’ll, er- I’ll text you, yeah?” John replied, clicking the lid on and planting the drink on the counter.

“Um, yeah, sure,” Sherlock murmured, moving back a little further, and then stepping forward again, a thought occurring to him. “But you don’t have-”

“Molly has it,” John interjected, looking over his shoulder to where the girl in question was typing in orders faster than the speed of light. “She’s been trying to give it to me for ages,” he added with a sheepish smile, and Sherlock felt his face change color, so he dropped it, biting at his lip as he retreated a step again.

“Right,” he clipped, looking up through his lashes as John chuckled. “Well, I’ll, er…talk to you later, then,” he stammered out, and John grinned, dipping a nod.

“Yeah,” he replied, and Sherlock felt at least marginally less foolish as John’s cheeks darkened too. “See ya.” He flashed a final smile, a gesture Sherlock fumblingly returned, and then focused back on yet another blended drink, Sherlock turning away to head out the door in a daze.

Four hours later, he was still a little delirious over it, the steady hum of the mass spectrometer the only thing grounding his mind, and, even then, he found his thoughts kept drifting, idly floating away on zephyrs of imagined scenarios that invariably ended up somewhere he felt he had to apologize for.

Rattling a particularly blush-worthy one from his head, he pushed his safety glasses further up the bridge of his nose, dropping a sample onto a slide with a pipette before slipping it under the microscope, leaning down to squint through the lighted lens as he adjusted the focus.

The door swung open behind him, something he didn’t think much of at first, someone always interrupting him to fetch something from the cupboard or freezer at least once during his stay, but then the newcomer spoke, and he spun around so fast, his glasses nearly flung free from his face.

“So, I was thinking,” John said by way of introduction, a paper bag crinkling as it swung from his hand. “When we tell that story, we should probably edit out the whole screaming-match-in-the-café bit.”

Sherlock chuckled as the blond approached, grin broad across his tan face. “How’d you know I was here?” he asked, and John shrugged, lifting the paper sack up onto the lab table just behind Sherlock’s as he eyed the microscope warily.

“Molly knew the building, and the janitor knew what room you usually used,” he explained, scraping a stool up as he faced Sherlock across the gap between the tables. “Nice guy, just became a grandpa on Wednesday. His son had a daughter, Isabelle. He’s got, like, thirty pictures on his phone.” He turned, bending down one side of the paper bag as he began unloading white Styrofoam takeaway boxes and bags of plastic cutlery.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked, hastily removing his goggles when John looked away, his brow steadily furrowing in confusion as he watched the blond’s progress.

“I dunno,” John shrugged, pushing the now-empty bag aside. “We just got to talking, I guess. He asked if I was a student, I said I was in medicine, he said his son was a doctor. You know how it goes.”

“No,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head. “No, I really don’t. What is all that?” he asked, scanning over the stacked boxes and generic brown napkins, and John chuckled, smiling up through his lashes as he picked up one of the white boxes, a clear bag of utensils perched atop it.

“Dinner,” he explained, the box bobbing in his grip as he shrugged. “I was asking you about tomorrow night, but that turned out to be too long to wait. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I went with Indian,” he said, stretching the carton out toward him. “Chicken tikka masala’s always a safe bet with the English,” he added with a smirk, and Sherlock laughed, taking the food and perching it on his lap.

“Fair enough,” he replied, halfway through flicking open the tab when he paused, a frown creasing his forehead. “Wait, tomorrow?” he questioned, lifting his face to John once more, who slowly turned back from fetching his own takeaway box.

“Yes,” the blond confirmed hesitantly. “I mean, if you’re free. Full disclosure, though, it’ll probably just be a different kind of takeaway.”

“No, I mean- I’m _free_ , I just- Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” he forced out, but John only quirked a brow.

“Did you see the café today?” he clipped, pointing his cutlery packet back through the wall in the vague direction of the building. “My fingers are _still_ pink from hanging all those hearts. I know what day it is.”

“No, I’m not saying- It’s just, isn’t that a little…significant?” he muttered, blushing furiously, a condition only made work as John lifted a teasing brow.

“Significant?” he mocked, laughing as Sherlock scowled, dropping his eyes to fiddle nervously with the latch on his food. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said after a moment, tone notably softer now, and Sherlock looked up through his lashes to find a shy smile twitching at the man’s lips. “I mean, if you don’t- We don’t have to-”

“No, I- It’s fine,” he mumbled, and John smiled, dropping his eyes as he flipped open his meal. Sherlock shifted on his stool, a warm fluttering filling up his chest as he slipped free the Styrofoam tab, and then burst into laughter, nearly tipping the food onto the floor.

“What?” John asked, vainly trying to stifle a smirk around a mouthful of rice, and Sherlock shook his head, turning the dish on his lap to face him.

“Really?” he sighed, tapping at the side of the container filled with rice, his very own ‘Be Mine’ conversation heart drizzled in tomato sauce over the white surface.

John cleared his mouth, and then dropped it open, blinking in feigned abashment. “I _thought_ the guy at the restaurant was _flirting_ with me!” he gasped, giving it up with a grin as Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

He turned the food back around, taking a mental snapshot, a digital one far too embarrassing an option. “How long did that take you?” he asked, tilting his head thoughtfully at the image, and John scoffed, hovering his laden fork in front of his mouth.

“Too long,” he replied, shaking his head, eyes wide with remembered horrors, and Sherlock chuckled, reluctantly demolishing the masterpiece as he began eating.

“And here I thought you only did lattes,” he teased, prompting a sneer from the blond.

“I’m an artist in all food-based medium,” he countered grandly, touching a hand to his sternum, and Sherlock laughed, lifting to cover his mouth as he threatened to choke on rice. “Get some alphabet soup, I’ll make it Scrabble.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sherlock replied, and John grinned, diving back into his chicken.

“So,” he said some time later, tipping his head toward the microscope, “what are you working on?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, turning back to the experiment, and then let his lips close, thinking better of it.

“I’m not squeamish,” John chuckled, eyes glinting perceptively as Sherlock gave him a wary look. “I’m a med student. I could tell you stories that would make your hair…straighten,” he muttered, brows furrowing at Sherlock’s curls, and then rattled his head as Sherlock laughed.

“Well,” he murmured hesitantly, but John only tipped his head, lifting his brows in challenge, and Sherlock sighed, spinning his stool back toward the microscope. “I’m testing the rate at which various insects metabolize drugs ingested via carrion,” he explained in a rush, and John froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

Slowly, he lowered the fork back to the box, brows twitching together as his blue eyes focused steadily on Sherlock’s grey ones. “Maggots,” he said evenly. “You’re testing maggots for drugs? To see how long it stays in their system after they’ve eaten something drugged?”

Sherlock nodded, watching John’s eyes as they shifted between him and the microscope, expecting a run for the bin at any moment. “And beetles,” he added with a tip of his head, figuring he’d gone this far already, he might as well explain it right. “Maggots and beetles.”

“What drug?” John asked, not looking at him anymore, his gaze fixed on the pipette leaning up against the side of a glass beaker.

“Methamphetamine,” Sherlock replied, shrugging a shoulder as he flicked a glance back at the slide clamped within his microscope. “At the lethal dose.”

“What are you using? For the carrion?” John questioned, shuffling his stool _closer_ , of all impossible things, and it was a long moment before Sherlock could do anything but gape at the side of his face, watching the thoughtful wrinkles crease around his eyes as John skimmed over his haphazard notes.

“Um…pig,” Sherlock replied, wondering how _he_ turned out to be the one getting dizzy while John only nodded, placing his takeaway box on the opposite side of Sherlock’s notebook as he slid a bite off his fork with his teeth.

“You just analyzing the insect tissues, then,” he pressed, tilting his head up at him with a frown of genuine curiosity, “or are you using casings and feces as well?”

Sherlock blinked, a long list of possible mental afflictions he might be plagued with flashing across his brain as he considered how incredibly not-normal it was that John asking him about insect feces while mixing tomato sauce into his rice was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, but he quickly rattled it free, grating his stool closer to the blond as he temporarily placed his food aside. “Er, just tissues and casings,” he explained, leaning in to flip back to the appropriate page in his notebook, and, two hours later, as he listened to John adamantly insist he was totally capable of extracting tissues from fly larvae—“I know how to use a bloody scalpel, Sherlock! They taught us how to perform an emergency tracheotomy, and mine was so good, I nearly brought that cadaver back to _life_!”—he knew, no matter what no-doubt-grander oddities lay ahead, he’d never edit out a single word of it.


End file.
